


you’re making friends with the fireflies

by orphan_account



Category: Hermitcraft, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Lowercase
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-05-20 23:24:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19386562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: cleo had died a long time ago. joe can’t help but dwell on that.(based on my hc for cleo being a zombie)





	you’re making friends with the fireflies

**Author's Note:**

> hey i wrote this like 5 months ago at 3am and realised i haven’t posted it anywhere so uh, here. i’m not super proud but chap 4 of tdbeaa is taking me longer than expected so have this ig.

it was early dawn when cleo and joe set out into the savannah field. the pale violet sky creeped between white and gray clouds. the sun still lay low and a gentle winds batted trees back and forth. it was a pleasant morning, if not a little cold.

cleo locked eyes with multiple skeletons and zombies (which hid in the pleasant shade of the trees) and suddenly broke into a sprint, moving further and further from joe until he could no longer see her. joe smiled, looking away. exhaustion made his bones ache but he simply shrugged the tiredness off - it would be gone by the time he started running off with cleo, anyway.

in the meantime, he cleared out a small area to rest at near the edge of a large cliff. he sat down, everything quiet other than gentle rustling of the grass, and cleo yelling and cursing in the distance.

joe drew in a sharp breath.

he hadn’t done something like this in a very long time. back when they lived in the secondary area, they’d go out at the first crack of dawn and see what they could retrieve from burning monsters. it was fun and they’d usually get a formidable amount of leather armour by the end of every patrol, but not long after they started, they ended.

and for good reason.

because the last time they went on one of these, cleo had died.

* * *

joe released a throaty sigh, collapsing onto the wall. he stood still for a second. he grabbed his glasses, fingers accidentally touching the lens, and pulled them away, letting blurred splotches of colour be the only thing remaining. immediately the smell of healing potions swam through his nose and made him sick. he was tired of the smell, the sickly, disgusting smell. the scent of cherries and sugar almost seemed to mock him. he clumsily rubbed his glasses with his shirt, worn and crumpled up. the smell of sweat mingled with the sweet potions’, evening it out. joe swallowed, and crouched down to meet the brewing stand. he watched the grand finale of the brewing, the last deep magenta specks fizzling into the rest of the pink. joe clasped the tubes, arching his back a bit and drawing his arms in so the glass wouldn't fall and shatter.

drowsily and with little bravado, he clambered towards the bed in the middle of the room. he slid the bottles onto the wooden slab next to it, and exhaled profoundly. 

cleo remained still and silent as ever.

joe pulled out a smaller, thinner tube from its position on the floor, and examined the washed-out labels. he poured half a bottle into it, going a little over the line he set. he observed it for a second, and said to himself, “whatever.” 

_‘that's what you said before. look where you are now.’_

joe looked at the tube again and poured some of it back. it almost seemed to be too low.

_‘better less than more.’_

after gently pushing away some of cleo's hair, joe kneaded into the skin and felt out the little cut on the side of her neck. the potion glimmered in pride, its ego hurt by the dim, tired lighting of the makeshift shelter. joe folded over the skin, which didn't seem to want to heal. he angled her head with care, and tipped over the tube. magenta flooded out until not even a little drop remained.

the smell lingered, and joe wanted nothing more than for it to disappear. he hastily measured out another dose.

green and purple covered cleo's hands and neck, like an absurd tortoiseshell pattern. the gentle pink of her skin was long gone, replaced either by dull, milky white or the dappled chaos. joe's eyelids purposefully fell until he was borderline squinting. 

pink fell into an open cavity in cleo’s arm, like a river flowing in a cavern. the flesh wasn't sewing itself back up no matter how many potions he used; and lord knows when he’d attempt magic again, if ever. joe looked at his unresponsive friend once more.

her eyes were encased by dark circles, and random flesh was either torn or flaked, showing little glimpses of bone and muscle. cleo was here, broken and silent, barely alive. it was his fault. he shouldn't have been so eager, he should've cast a simple sewing spell or a clotting enchantment. or better yet, he shouldn't have gotten involved. he should've waited for her to die and respawn.

and he was doing that now. he was waiting for her to stir, he was waiting for her to heal up and rise, because god was he not going to trust his faulty intuition. last time he did that it caused this whole ordeal.

joe stood up. he dragged himself to the brewing stand, a somewhat confident crawl. he wearily inhaled and released a shaky hand into his ingredient stash. drawing out a flask of milky white liquid, he poured in at least a third. the last tube of healing he had left rang throughout the cramped room as it clanged against the brewing stand. joe shifted in his position, thoughtful. he wiggled out the last rabbit foot he had. joe was never particularly superstitious. but he couldn't help himself. he held the charm high, and whispered, “for good luck. may she spring back into action.” with a flourish before letting it drop into the concoction. his hands moved quickly and with grace, despite the concerning shaking. blaze powder shimmered like gold on his fingertips and then in the brew, and he shook in some redstone dust for good measure.

the night outside roared and screeched. joe simply ignored it, heaving himself off the floor and forcing corks over the openings of the bottles. he padded over to cleo, dearly hoping, no, knowing, that this would work. it'd have to. if this failed, which it wouldn’t, it couldn't, but if it did, there was nothing else that could be done.

the golden clock over the wall shifted prismatically into a lighter blue. joe figured it was safe now.

he poured the liquid into her wounds, and once he was done, he threw them onto the floor in frustration, too tired to even prop them on the slab shelf. he shifted a little, sitting on his knees, head resting on the bed preserving cleo.

he desperately hoped this would work; because he had no other plan.

* * *

 

_“joe? hey joe?”_

joe raised his head, taken aback. he heaved himself up.

the wind suddenly roared once more, and just as fast, it quieted down. joe’s shaky breathing now took centre stage. he met cleo’s eyes, his own breath caught in his throat.

“joe, are you alright?”

joe remained silent, covering his mouth with his hand. he swallowed, reminding himself everything was fine, that everything was alright, that cleo was here and she was alive and she was healed and she could think and she could speak. 

“y-yeah. i’m fine. i just…” joe looked away.

 cleo’s gaze faltered, and she threw over her trident into the grass and crouched down next to joe. she admired the sky with him for a while, taking in the yellows, the pinks, and all the colours inbetween. she paused for a second before muttering, “you’re clearly not fine right now..”

he didn’t reply.

“joe,” she said gently, taking his hand in hers, “i’m here. i’m holding you. i’m speaking.”

joe was instantly comforted by her voice, something so trivial yet so important to him. he drew in another breath, not having the energy to speak. cleo squeezed his hand comfortingly.

“i’m not going to disappear.”

 


End file.
